There's No Redemption From Pitch

There's no redemption from pitch.
Sometimes in the sunlight there's a sheen to it,
a tempting shine in its darkness,
and it seems yielding, aqueous.

The iridescence calls to your eyes—
it's damnably attractive, this stuff.
Lies there in its patch, preening.

You touch it - ignore the warning signs -
reaching out across the barrier space,
fingers happily anticipating warm smoothness,
wanting to share the touch of the embedded color,
the age-old charm of oil.

No one can tell you.

No one can pull you apart from the pitch,
fingers stuck to the darkness
that went from enticing to something else.

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